


What Greater Gift

by scheherazade



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Gen, Other, cat!fic, implied Brett Lee/Eoin Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a cat adopts Eoin Morgan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Greater Gift

**Author's Note:**

> For Meg, who got me into this fandom. Title from the Charles Dickens quote: "What greater gift than the love of a cat?"

Eoin is on his way home from Tesco when he trips over a cat.

The thing jumps away in a coffee-colored blur, taking ten years of his life with it. Thankfully there's no one around to witness his humiliation. Why anyone ever thought domesticating cats would be a good idea, Eoin will never understand. 

He straightens his jacket and keeps walking.

"Mrow."

Eoin stops. The cat is following him. Its eyes are trained on his Tesco bag. Planning to steal his tuna sandwich, no doubt.

He flaps his hands at it. "Shoo." Plastic rustles. "Go on, scat."

The cat's eyes move from the bag to his face. "Mrrow?"

"No." He backs away slowly. "Shoo."

The cat sits on its haunches and looks at him dolefully — or would, if cats had souls capable of emotion. Which they don't. Which is why Eoin should stop having a staring contest with this thing and just go.

He turns and resumes walking, the right way around this time. 

After a hundred yards he looks back over his shoulder. 

The street is empty.

 

* * *

 

He steps into his flat and something streaks past his ankles. Eoin slams the door shut on reflex.

The cat followed him home.

The cat is now in his home.

_There is a great big bloody cat in Eoin Morgan's home._

"Mrow," goes the cat.

"I need a cup of tea," says Eoin, feeling faint.

 

* * *

 

The cat plants itself in the middle of his sofa and watches Eoin tip-toe around his own flat. He meaningfully leaves the porch door open. The cat squints happily at the sunlight that floods the room.

Eoin retreats into the kitchen with his tea. Maybe if he gives it space, it'll leave.

When he comes back ten minutes later, the cat is asleep.

 

* * *

 

He types "a cat followed me home what do i do" into Google. 

Forty minutes, several help forums, and too many euthanasia infographs later, Eoin turns off his computer. The cat is still asleep on his sofa. Its long legs take up nearly half the available cushion area. There's a low rumbling sound coming from its body, vibrating in the air.

 _They can eat cooked fish or eggs_ , Eoin remembers from one of the forum threads.

 

* * *

 

"Mrow."

"No."

"Mrroow."

" _No._ "

The cat puts its head on its paws and stares at him with big, soulful eyes.

"You don't have a soul," Eoin tells the cat. "And you've already had your dinner."

The cat swishes its tail. 

Eoin ends up eating none of the eggs he cooked. He wonders how much protein is too much protein for a feline. He makes a mental note to google that later.

The cat rubs against his ankles while he does the washing up.

"I still don't like you," Eoin says as a matter of principle. It purrs at him.

 

* * *

 

Eoin wakes up feeling cold.

He shuffles into the sitting room. It's empty. He checks the kitchen and the loo. Also empty. The porch door is still open.

It's barely half seven. The cat is perched on the rail, its back to him. Like it's getting ready to jump onto the neighboring rooftop.

Eoin starts to slide the door closed. The cat turns its head.

They stare at each other.

"There's a draft coming in," Eoin explains.

The cat jumps down from its perch, pads across the porch and back inside.

 

* * *

 

A week later, the cat's still there. Eoin decides he better take it to a vet. See if it's diseased. Or maybe someone's lost pet.

The cat, as it turns out, is neither. It is also a he. 

And he, the vet notes, is very fond of Eoin.

"No need to look so alarmed, Mr. Morgan," the vet says kindly. "You're doing fine. Take your time, and get to know him."

 

* * *

 

Eoin takes the cat home. It—he—follows him around while he makes tea, and then to the sofa. 

"Sit," Eoin commands. Except it comes out more like a suggestion. 

The cat sprawls at his feet.

 

* * *

 

Graeme is supposed to be driving him to meet the rest of the team. They'd said ten. It's nearly half past.

"Oi, Morgs." Graeme tries the door handle. "You alive?"

"Yes—no. No! _Just a minute._ "

"You having a wank? Finish up, they're waiting for us at— oh my _god_."

"It's not what it looks like," Eoin says lamely.

Graeme just—stares, at first. Then he starts laughing. 

He's laughing so hard he barely gets his phone out in time to snap a picture of the cat attempting to cuddle a very disgruntled Eoin Morgan.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy's mobile buzzes once, twice, thrice. Messages from Graeme. He thumbs across the screen to unlock it and reads:

_HAHAHAHAHAHAHAA A CAT ADOPTED MORGS_

_WE'RE NAMING IT BRETT_

_BECUASE IT LOVES HIM_

There's a photo attached.

 

* * *

 

"I'm not calling him that," Eoin complains.

Graeme rolls the felt ball across the floor. The cat pounces on it. "It's the name he responds to."

"That's just when you're here."

"How do you call him, then?"

"I don't."

As if on cue, the cat pads over and puts both front paws on his feet. "Mrow."

"He goes when he wants," Eoin informs Graeme.

Graeme jiggles a bell toy. "C'mere, Brett."

"No," says Eoin, but it's hopeless. The cat is already running after Graeme.

 

* * *

 

The problem, mostly, is that Graeme's good with cats and Eoin's not.

"Casper," he tries. "Charlie. Cronan. Catchin Tendulkar." None of the names catch on.

After a month, he can't watch Sky without the cat perking up whenever they discuss Australian cricket.

After two months, a "Brett the Cat" tag starts appearing on his Facebook photos.

After three months, Eoin stops untagging them every morning and lets Graeme and Stu (and Jimmy, he suspects) do as they will.

 

* * *

 

The cat's taken to sleeping next to his pillow at night. Eoin wakes up one morning to a faceful of rough cat tongue.

"Uuurgh." Eoin shields his face, which results in his hand getting licked as well. "Down. No. Down, _Brett_."

The cat backs off.

He cracks open an eye. A pair of brown ones peer back at him.

"Traitor," Eoin whispers at the cat.

The cat nuzzles his nose with an eskimo kiss. "Mrow."


End file.
